I needed to figure out how to rid myself of these persistent echoes. How to find myself again. But how? Each time I tried to focus, yet another memory surfaced in my mind like a lump of filth, pulling me deeper into their chaotic, cursed lives.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The air burned my lungs—dry and heavy, as if saturated with the dust of this place. The sounds around me began to fade, to blur, to grow muffled, as though I were retreating somewhere deep within myself. I felt my chest slowly rise and fall, trying to catch a rhythm.

I forced myself to feel only the breath—the coolness on the inhale and the warmth on the exhale. Everything else began to retreat, like waves leaving the shore empty. Memories, their chaotic images, and foreign emotions seemed to dissolve against the backdrop of these measured movements.

Another deep breath, and on the exhale, I felt better. Everything seemed a bit farther away, a bit less significant. It was as if I stood on the edge of chaos but no longer fell into it. Calmness came slowly, piece by piece. My hands stopped trembling, my thoughts slowed, no longer rushing like stray bullets.

The world became steadier. Much steadier than a minute ago. I took one last deep breath and opened my eyes. The silence no longer felt so oppressive, and the dusty air no longer gave a sense of suffocation.

I froze and began to ponder. If I am capable of absorbing memories, what else might yield to this... ability? Skills? Experience? Practical knowledge? And weaknesses? Can I understand them just as I do the feelings and fears that have already invaded my mind?

This thought caught hold, like a hook. What if I can use them? Make them part of myself? Turn their strength, their skills, even their weaknesses into something that makes me stronger? After all, I could already feel their experience, albeit faintly: the knowledge of combat — the ability to read an opponent through the smallest movement, to sense the moment they are about to strike. I knew how to maintain distance, when and where to strike to weaken an opponent.

Firearm skills surfaced in my memory on their own—how to reload, how to aim, how to choose a spot for cover. Even the psychology of combat became clear: how to exploit fear, how to break confidence, how to force the victim into making a mistake. All of it was there, deep inside.

I forced myself to linger on this. Could I turn these fragments of memories — pieces of other people's lives — into something useful? Something that would justify not only their deaths but also all this madness now raging inside me?

This thought wouldn't let go, even when I tried to push it away. It pulled me down, persistently whispering: If you are capable of this, why stop?

And then that name surfaced... Nurgle.

It burst into my mind like an icy wind, sending a shiver down my spine. A primal, animalistic fear engulfed me, so overwhelming and ancient it felt almost out of place. Who is Nurgle? What kind of entity lies behind this name? And what, for damn's sake, does it have to do with me?

The thought flashed, sharp as a knife's edge, but quickly got lost in the whirlwind of immediate concerns. The stolen memories gnawed at my sanity, leaving little room for reflection on anything else. Yet this memory tied to Nurgle did not fade. It settled deep within me, ready to surface at the most inopportune moment.

For now, I had enough to deal with. My body, alien and unfamiliar. Memories that weren't mine. And a head full of questions with not a single answer.

The wind stirred up dust, carrying with it the stench of rust and burnt metal. It seeped into my nostrils, leaving a bitter aftertaste on my tongue.

I shifted my gaze to the remains of the container, scattered across the ground in sharp fragments. Among the debris, one piece stood out — a small plate that still bore a triangular symbol. Partially stained, but still recognizable. It figured that even after its destruction, it refused to give up its secrets.

I picked up the fragment and turned it over in my hand. The metal was rough, with sharp edges. The symbol wasn't pretty. But that wasn't its purpose. Its meaning lay elsewhere. Someone wanted it to be noticed. To speak for itself — of importance, of power. Without words, just through its presence.

If this piece of metal held any answers, it kept them buried deeper than I could reach. I stared at it, willing—no, demanding—it to reveal something.

And then I remembered. The memories of the leader I had consumed slid into my mind like a shadow. He knew about this symbol. Knew it was somehow connected to Nurgle. But nothing more. No context, no meaning. Just that dull connection, like an echo in an empty room.

I set the fragment aside. But something flickered in the pile of dirt nearby—a reflection from a buried shard of glass. The movement caught my attention. I leaned in closer, driven by a strange, unsettling curiosity.

And then I froze.

The face staring back at me from the glass wasn't mine. Not the face I once remembered—if my memories were even worth trusting. It wasn't the face of a stranger, either, the one that had flickered in an earlier reflection.

It was familiar. Too familiar, and that made it truly revolting. Coarse skin, as if chiseled from stone, a sharp jawline, and that mocking smirk, seemingly etched into its features forever. It was him. The gang leader, Grizzly. The one whose life I had torn away, drained, and turned into an empty shell.

Now his face had replaced mine. As if it had every right to do so.

My insides twisted so violently I wanted to double over. I clenched my teeth, gripping the edge of the shard until the metal bit into my palm. This wasn't a mistake. I knew it as clearly as I knew that everything happening was unnatural.

My reflection... it was gone. It vanished along with a part of me when I consumed him. In its place was now his face. This wasn't just memories, stolen in a surge of something wild and unfamiliar. This was him. His essence, his features. The realization hit me like a hammer to the head.

Now his face was mine. If I kept going like this, how many more faces would pile onto it? How many masks would layer over me before their weight crushed me? How many could I endure before I disappeared entirely?

I challenged my reflection again, glaring into the glass. The face stared back, smug and predatory, with a grin that begged to be struck. I hated it. I hated it so much that something hot and ugly churned in my chest. But stronger than the hatred was the realization: this face was now part of me. Whether I wanted it or not.

My hand trembled, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught another detail that sent a chill through me. The jumpsuit I had been wearing earlier was gone. In its place was Grizzly's leather vest, unmistakable down to the rough gang insignia stitched into the fabric.

I grabbed the collar, desperate to tear off the disgusting thing. My fingers slipped, unable to find a seam to grip. The material felt wrong. It wasn't fabric. It was warm, pliable, almost alive. I yanked harder, almost in a frenzy, but the "material" stretched unnaturally and snapped back into place, like elastic flesh. A wave of nausea ripped through me, nearly doubling me over. This wasn't clothing. This was me.

I clawed at the sleeves, hoping to find seams or openings to remove this "armor." There were none. No seams, no gaps. Nothing.

The vest's texture shifted under my fingers, transitioning from firm and unyielding to disturbingly elastic. Yet there was no mistaking it. This was part of my body. Every buckle, every scuff, every stain looked real, but I knew it was a lie.

My body had completely reshaped itself, absorbing everything, even these cursed rags, and turning them into its own flesh. I clenched my fists, feeling the muscles in my arms tense with unrelenting anger. Slowly, I drew in a deep breath, forcing my thoughts into order.

This wasn't me, that's fine. This face, this clothing — none of it was mine. But it was useful. I looked at my reflection again, trying to see beyond the grotesque reality to the possibilities it offered. Grizzly's gang would see this face. They would recognize it. They would trust it. Maybe that was the point.

I turned away, letting the seething rage in my chest cool into something sharper, more calculated. This wasn't a curse. It was a weapon. A tool I could wield.

If I could take someone's memories, their thoughts, their skills, then why not their face? Their appearance? It didn't just make me stronger—it made me harder to track, harder to predict. Disgusting, yes. But it gave me an edge. And in this world, an edge was everything.

The thought lingered in the back of my mind. If my body could change every time I absorbed someone, could I control the process? Could I decide what to take, what to keep, and what to discard? The idea felt too nebulous to fully explore now, but I couldn't push it away. It clung like a splinter, buried at the edges of my awareness. For now, it was just another question, another unknown in an ever-growing list.

But I knew this: the answers would come. Maybe not immediately, but I would find them. Of that, I was certain.

The remains of the shuttle offered neither answers nor shelter. They were useless, just a pile of rusted scrap surrounded by death. Staying here made me a target. Those scavengers clearly weren't working alone. If they came here for something important, others would come eventually.

Waiting for them? No, not a chance. I had no interest in finding out who else might show up for this heap of metal.

The symbol of Nurgle gnawed at me. One glance was enough to know that trouble was only beginning. And trouble rarely came alone; it always brought friends, none of them peaceful.

I needed to move. Quickly, and as far away from this cursed place as possible.

I scanned the horizon. Endless dunes stretched before me — empty and lifeless, as though the planet itself had long since given up. But far off, against the sky, a faint smear of smoke was visible. A hive city.

Stolen memories surfaced in my mind. Sector 11, known to most as the Smelter. The city was a pit — a chaotic mix of desperate outcasts, gangsters, and anyone else life had kicked to the gutter. A true nightmare, the kind of place no sane person would willingly enter.

But for me, it was an opportunity. The best I had left. If anyone knew what that symbol meant or where it led, they'd be there. And if no one did? The city could still hide me. It was the kind of place where disappearing was easy.

No one would find me in the Smelter. At least, that was what I hoped.

I picked up the shard with the triangular symbol, the one that caught the eye and refused to let go. Sliding it into my belt, I decided to keep it close until I found some answers. A tightness gripped my chest as I thought about what might await me in the direction of that rising smoke. The hive city promised nothing good. But staying here, amidst the wreckage of the shuttle and a pile of corpses, was clearly the worse option.

Sector 11 — a place where any remnants of humanity were burned away to nothing. The memories stolen from Grizzly whispered about it. Slums steeped in despair, gangs ready to tear each other apart for scraps of metal, and streets where the word "law" had long since lost any meaning.

I reached for the holster at my side, but my fingers found only emptiness. The absence of a weapon struck with unexpected sharpness, as if something vital had been ripped away along with the pistol. Grizzly's memories surged like a sudden tide. To him, that pistol had been more than just a tool for survival. It was his companion, his symbol of authority and strength, his last solace in a world where trust was a foreign concept.

I saw his hands—rough but precise—as he tended to the weapon in the dim light of his hideout. His toolkit, old and battered but complete, was one of the few things he truly valued. Cleaning, oiling, disassembling, and reassembling the gun were rituals to him, almost meditative. I remembered the dull gleam of steel under the lamp, the click of a locking slide, the sharp scent of gun oil. These weren't just habits. They were deeply personal, almost sacred.

Now, realizing that the weapon was gone, I felt an odd emptiness, as though a part of me had been lost. But it wasn't my feeling. It was his pain, his attachment. And yet, it weighed on me now, even though it had no right to.

I rummaged through the wreckage with a growing sense of unease. Without a weapon, I wouldn't last long in the Smelter. My attention caught a faint glint of metal, half-hidden beneath a curved piece of the shuttle's hull. A strange sense of foreboding washed over me before I even saw what I had found.

I crouched, brushed off the dust, and froze. There it was.

The pistol fit into my hand as if it had always belonged there. Too naturally, too perfectly, as though it recognized me—even if I no longer recognized myself. I turned the weapon over in my hands. My fingers instinctively traced its contours. Scratches on the grip, the sticky residue of oil applied with care, almost affection, the polished trigger worn smooth with subtle use—it was all too familiar. This pistol was a living memory of someone who no longer existed. And now it had become a part of me, just like everything else I had taken from him.

I clicked the cylinder and checked its contents. Fewer than ten rounds. Not much, but enough to get by until I found something better. The familiar weight of the weapon and its straightforward design offered a sense of reassurance. The pistol slid smoothly into the holster. Whatever dangers waited in the depths of the Smelter, I wouldn't face them unarmed.

I shifted my gaze from the horizon to a motorcycle lying on its side. Rusted thing, beaten by time, and barely holding together. It looked it could fall apart any time. But it could still run. And that meant it could get me to the city faster than I could on foot.

Time stretched, but the road ahead was clear. It was time to ride.


The motorcycle rattled and jolted beneath me, on the verge of breaking down. Every bump made the whole frame groan, but it held together. The previous owner likely hadn't planned for a long trip, but there was just enough fuel to make it to the city. Still, it felt like this hunk of scrap could fall apart beneath me at any moment.

The smoke on the horizon grew thicker and darker. It was no longer just a faint smudge against the sky. Now it rose in heavy black columns, reaching upward as if to warn that nothing good awaited inside the city.

The hive city, Sector 11, drew closer. Even from a distance, it looked anything but welcoming. It loomed over the landscape like an old, ugly scar etched across the planet's surface.

The Smelter was a chaotic tangle of warped structures, as if drunken architects had thrown them together only for scavengers to tear them apart for scrap. Broken towers jutted out at bizarre angles, drowning in choking clouds of foul industrial fumes. The city resembled a festering wound, seeping smoke. Every jagged corner warned that this was a place where mistakes were not forgiven.

Foreign memories surged through my mind again, like a filthy tide. Those I had killed worked for a gang called the Vultures—a fitting name. They scavenged through trash, wreckage, and the lives of others, searching for anything they could sell, steal, or destroy. True carrion feeders who left nothing behind.

As for Grizzly... He wasn't in charge. Not even close. He was just another link in the chain, serving someone far more powerful, cruel, and terrifying.

A name emerged from the depths of the stolen memories. Barik "Razor." Even his own men feared him. He wasn't just a gang leader—he was a predator, watching his prey from afar and eliminating it without hesitation. Barik ruled the lower levels of the hive with the cold efficiency of a butcher. He didn't care who ended up under the knife, as long as his goals were achieved. His subordinates lived in constant fear of him, and with good reason.

Grizzly's memories left no doubt: Barik never repeated himself. One command was absolute. If someone dared to ask twice, it meant they hadn't understood the first time, and that alone was grounds for punishment. His methods were so terrifying that even the thought of them, however faint, brought a palpable sense of dread.

Barik had sent Grizzly out on this errand with vague instructions: find something unusual. It wasn't just another haul of scrap or smuggled contraband. Barik had been clear — this was different.

Grizzly didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but he understood one thing—it was tied to matters he was better off not understanding. The symbol on the container stirred a vague, almost primal fear in him. He didn't know what it meant, but he'd heard enough whispers and hints to guess: it was something so dangerous that it would have been better left untouched.

Nurgle. Grizzly didn't fully grasp the meaning of the word. To him, it was just a name spoken in hushed tones, usually by those too drunk to keep their mouths shut or too desperate to fear the consequences. But he knew one thing: anything associated with that symbol always meant trouble—the kind you could never escape.

Grizzly wasn't foolish enough to ask Barik why he wanted it. Barik didn't explain his orders, and those who dared to question him rarely saw another day. Grizzly simply did what he was told.

He had his fears, and Barik topped the list. If Grizzly failed the mission, Barik's brutality would leave him no chance. He had no illusions about how that would end. Yet even completing the task successfully brought no relief.

When he found the container, it didn't feel like a victory. On the contrary, the sight of the symbol made his stomach twist, and realizing it was empty only heightened his unease. There was something wrong about this mission, something that made him want to run and never look back.

The memories lingered in my mind, leaving a bitter aftertaste, like a residue that couldn't be washed away. Grizzly had been ambitious but not blind, and his instincts had never failed him. He immediately sensed that this was something far beyond Barik, beyond the Vultures, and certainly beyond himself. Everything tied to that container wasn't just valuable—it carried a danger cloaked in some incomprehensible, almost imperceptible force.

Now he was gone. And the realization that its contents had vanished—stolen, or worse, escaped—stirred an uneasy dread deep within me. It wasn't just disappointment. It was a foreboding sense of the end.

The layout of the hive flashed through my mind again—winding corridors and slums teeming with gangs. Barik controlled only the lower levels, but even those were a place where a single misstep could cost a life. He avoided climbing higher—too dangerous. Those who ruled the upper levels were monsters in every sense, hiding their cruelty behind a facade of nobility. Occasionally, he had to deal with them, but always with caution. This game allowed no room for error.

As for Grizzly, he had known he was playing with fire. He just thought he'd live long enough to cash in. Turns out, he guessed wrong.

I gripped the handlebars tighter, as if that could somehow keep the thoughts creeping into my head at bay. The memories weren't clear, but that didn't make them any less real. Everything blurred together—his voice, his thoughts, and me, now unsure where Grizzly ended and the person I had been began. I felt his disdain for other gang members, his hunger to claw his way to the top, his constant unease, as if his entire life had been one long endurance test. He lived every day as though it were a survival game, and his grudges, his calculated view of people as little more than meat, were so familiar they were almost unbearable. But damn, those thoughts were useful. Without them, I wouldn't even know where to start.

The road stretched endlessly ahead of me, but the city was drawing closer, little by little.

My reflection flickered in the cracked rearview mirror, catching my eye. The same grim smirk that once belonged to Grizzly. It seemed to whisper that this face was mine now—for good.

I stared into the fractures, the lines distorting the features, making them feel even more alien. I knew I could steal someone's appearance by consuming them, but could I go further? Could I change my appearance at will without taking it from someone else? Could I choose what remained and what disappeared?

I slowed down, leaning closer to the mirror. There it was—my new face. Grizzly's harsh, cruel features, with that infuriating smirk and scars that were never mine but now felt like they were. They were in my skin, in my eyes, in every contour.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from that reflection. The longer I stared, the clearer it became—this wasn't just someone else's face. It was mine, even if it didn't match anything I remembered about myself.

My fingers tightened instinctively around the handlebars, and I forced myself to focus. Change, I whispered into the silence, like casting a spell. Do something.

I tried to sense something shifting inside me. No matter how hard I willed it, nothing happened. The face kept staring back, unchanged, with the same sarcasm and cruel confidence I despised so much.

I clenched my teeth, feeling frustration boiling in my chest. Fine, let's try again. This time, I didn't think about the whole face. I focused on one detail — the scar. I remembered how Grizzly got that scar. A scuffle with some lowlife thugs who thought they had a chance. What a farce it had been: dirt, screams, blood — all for a few rusted trinkets worth nothing. The scar became a reminder that even small dogs could bite if you let them get too close.

I concentrated on it, imagined it disappearing—slowly smearing across the skin and then fading away. The flesh beneath it trembled, as if unsure of what to believe. Then, smooth skin emerged, like a fresh canvas. No scar. No trace.

I blinked, startled by how easy it had been. My fingers brushed my cheek—smooth as a newborn's. Could it really be that simple? The mirror, cracked though it was, didn't lie. The scar was gone. I smirked instinctively, almost the way Grizzly used to. The face in the mirror answered with that same cocky grin, but something about it felt off, not quite right. It annoyed me, as if Grizzly was clinging to me, refusing to disappear.

I narrowed my eyes and focused on that expression he wore so often—mocking, cruel, like a predator who feared nothing. I pictured the smirk dissolving, softening into something more even, more neutral. The lips obeyed, shifting smoothly as though they were pliable clay shaped by my thoughts. The smirk vanished, as if it had never existed. In its place was a calm, cold face—stripped of Grizzly's sneering malice. It was less his now and more mine. Or perhaps more of whoever I had become.

I studied my reflection again, assessing the result. This was more than just convenience. It was another weapon in my arsenal. A mask I could reshape for any situation, perfectly adaptable and deceptive. In a world where danger waited around every corner, it was comforting to know I wouldn't always have to fight head-on. Sometimes, it was smarter to simply disappear into the crowd.

Curiosity got the better of me. I decided to try changing my eye color. Grizzly's brown eyes stared back at me from the mirror with that same heavy, unsettling confidence. I focused, willing them to transform. At first, they darkened to coal black, then abruptly lightened into a cold, unnatural blue. The sensation was strange, like flexing muscles I hadn't realized I had. The blue reflected the light, giving the face in the mirror an uncanny, almost inhuman quality. I didn't like it.

I spent the next few minutes experimenting. Scars appeared and vanished at my command, like brushstrokes on an artist's canvas. My jawline shifted between sharp and soft, my nose alternated between narrow and broad. My appearance became a constantly changing mask, the features morphing with each new attempt.

None of these faces were mine, but that didn't matter. I wasn't searching for myself. What mattered was making sure no one could find me if the hunt for Grizzly began.

I shifted my gaze to my hands. The rough scars and calluses Grizzly had earned throughout his life felt alien, as if they belonged to someone else entirely. I focused, willing the skin to change, to erase those marks of his past. The flesh obeyed, smoothing out, becoming softer and cleaner, shedding the harshness of a life hard-lived. I flexed my fingers—they felt the same as before, strong and familiar. But they looked different, like the hands of someone who had never been through a single scrape.

There was no doubt now: I could be anyone. I could become anyone.

For now, Grizzly's appearance had to stay. I closed my eyes, focusing on the details of his face—the scars, the leather vest, the coarse lines that defined his essence. Piece by piece, I restored it, following his memories as though tracing a map.

Grizzly's memories continued to murmur at the edge of my consciousness, warning of the dangers lurking in the hive city. His face could serve as a key, useful for now, but it wasn't meant to stay forever. I knew I could change when the time came. I knew I could adapt.

Now I was certain: I would survive. Here, in this chaos, I would find a way to rise.

The motorcycle sputtered, letting out another unsettling noise, as if reminding me to keep moving. Caught up in my experiments and thoughts, I had slowed down more than I should have. I twisted the throttle, and the engine responded with a hoarse growl. The old machine gave everything it had left. The wheels bounced over another rough patch, sending jolts through the handlebars and into my shoulders. The road to Sector 11 resembled a jagged scar on the planet's surface—torn, brutal, and ready to destroy anything daring to traverse it. It felt as though the ground itself was trying to repel travelers, whispering a warning: "You don't belong here."

That was fine by me. The fewer people I crossed paths with, the fewer chances for pointless conversations, ambushes, or a knife in the back. In a world where every encounter could be fatal, solitude sometimes felt like the only true luxury.

Infiltrating the ranks of the Vultures seemed like the obvious move. While they didn't sit at the top of the planet's food chain, they had what mattered most right now: numbers, firepower, and resources. The memories I'd taken from Grizzly gave me enough insight to play their game. With the right mask and approach, I could easily pass as one of them, especially with the knowledge of their inner workings now rattling around in my head.

But there were other options. The Vultures' rivals. On this planet, where everyone viewed others as either a resource or a threat, gangs were always searching for an edge. Someone like me, who could appear out of nowhere with skills, resources, or at least audacity, would draw attention quickly. It was a risky play, but the rewards could be significant. Scavengers like them respected strength and cunning, and I had both to offer.

Entering the hive without a clear plan was suicide. This place reeked of death. The first step was to reach the lower sectors. That was where the Vultures nested, thriving in the chaos and decay like rats in a garbage heap. Grizzly's memories painted these areas as dangerous but strangely alluring. Filthy streets where every corner was a battlefield, yet with enough cleverness, you could find anything you needed.

The danger was obvious. One wrong move, and you'd be dead—if you were lucky—or your remains would be scattered as a warning. But I didn't have the luxury of caution. In a place like this, the word "plan" meant less a calculated strategy and more a readiness to act on instinct, to adapt and improvise in an instant.

Infiltrating the Vultures was the first step. I needed to find them, play the role of the sole survivor from the skirmish near the shuttle, and sell them my version of events. Observe, assess the situation, and most importantly, get close to Barik without drawing attention. His assimilation would be the key to everything. With his memories, skills, and connections, I could take control of the entire gang, turning them into my tool.

But that was for later. First, I had to enter the rotting maze called the Smelter. A place where greed teetered on the edge of madness, fear was currency, and blood was an inescapable part of any deal. I had to step into that pit and immediately blend in, leaving no room for suspicion.

Grizzly's face, his mannerisms, his personality—everything was already in place. The Vultures would see him, hear his voice, and feel his signature audacity. They wouldn't suspect a thing. They'd accept me as one of their own because the idea that their Grizzly was anything but himself would never cross their minds.

The sun sank lower, and twilight crept in. The hive loomed against the sky—a sprawling mass of metal and rust. Towers, bridges, suspended walkways—it all looked hostile and lifeless. This was no place for living, yet life thrived here. The motorcycle lurched forward, coughing and rattling over every bump. The engine sputtered, as if it shared my unease.

Someone among these scum had the information I needed. Maybe they knew what the symbol on the container meant. Maybe they'd heard more about the name that haunted me — Nurgle. Or maybe they'd just stumbled across rumors that would lead me to the truth. It didn't matter. They had something, and I would take it.

If that meant convincing them I was Grizzly, so be it. They'd believe me because they'd have no reason not to. The face, the voice, the mannerisms—it was all perfect. And if anyone decided to test me? That would be their mistake.

I would get to the truth, even if it meant eliminating every one of them. It didn't matter how many there were or who they thought they were. If I had to, I would devour them all. Their lives meant nothing if they stood between me and my answers.


Vex leaned heavily against a crooked, battered post that looked ready to collapse at any moment. His back ached after endless hours on duty, and the thick air, saturated with smoke and sweat, clung to him like an extra weight. It felt as if the entire cursed city was pressing down on him—its mass, its filth, its dull, indifferent contempt for anyone within its bounds.

Behind him loomed the gates—two massive slabs of metal crusted with ancient rust and layers of grime that seemed older than the city itself. The Smelter had never been welcoming to visitors. After sunset, it turned outright hostile. This place didn't hide its nature. It practically hissed: "Don't come in if you want to see another morning." Vex knew that warning, like everything else here, was useless. Those trying to break in had long since abandoned reason.

"Five minutes left!" Vex barked, slicing through the monotonous whir of nearby machinery. He gave the railing a sharp rap with his shock-baton. The metallic clank wandered off into the empty wasteland beyond the gates, sounding as hollow as this job felt.

Vex stood on the metal platform. His boots scraped against the worn surface. Empty dirt and broken wreckage stretched before him. The darkness of the hive city lingered behind.

The air was thick, heavy, soaked with the soot of burning fuel and some rotting filth. This cocktail clawed its way into the lungs, provoking a cough, but Vex didn't even flinch. Here, you either breathed in the dirt or didn't breathe at all.

A gnawing hunger stirred in his stomach, reminding him that rations had been cut again since yesterday. As always, it was presented as a temporary measure. Temporary, of course, like life itself. No one, not even those handing out that excuse, believed in it anymore.

The higher-ups always found a way to squeeze the last ounce of strength from the workers. They knew those on the lower levels would hold on to the end—not out of hope, but because there was no other choice. Those who stayed at the bottom survived on scraps, and those scraps were all they were given.

Vex gripped his baton tightly, feeling its familiar weight in his hand. The horizon didn't frighten him—what was there to fear in the endless sands and rusted remnants of the past? The real danger began right here, just beyond the gates, and Vex knew that well.

Traders came infrequently, but each visit was an event. They brought goods worth more than most locals could earn in a lifetime: food, water, rare parts. These caravans instantly drew attention, but not from people like Vex. His job was simple—stand and watch. Gangs like the Bonebreakers or the Vultures, however, were much more active.

These scavengers took whatever caught their eye, regardless of who it belonged to. The traders could only hope their cargo wasn't valuable enough to attract attention. But more often than not, they left with nothing. Or they didn't leave at all.

No one cared about the suffering of others. Here, it didn't matter. The city ran by its own rules: either you take, or they take from you. There was no third option.

The pain throbbed in his back, reminding him of the hours spent on his feet. Yes, guard duty sucked, but it beat some of the alternatives. Vex had seen the workers return from the slag pits—exhausted, as if they had lived a hundred years in a single shift. Those who toiled in the sludge pits often coughed up black mucus until their lungs finally gave out.

He had seen their bodies—broken, maimed, hollow. He had seen enough to know: nothing good awaited anyone in this place. Some broke faster, others slower.

Faces flashed in his memory. The gaunt, worn-out traders with empty eyes, as though they already knew what awaited them. Desperate mothers, dragging children who screamed either from hunger or because they still had the strength to scream. Couriers clutching their parcels to their chests, as if those were the only things standing between them and death, though the parcels themselves looked more like unexploded bombs, ready to go off at any moment. Fatigue, fear, distrust—these were frozen on their faces. Here, no one ever looked truly alive.

Vex shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. Thinking about the people in the hive only led to irritation. Some things never changed. Never. The ones at the bottom always stayed there—bent, broken, or gone. The city, though, kept moving on like they never existed.

He stepped to the edge of the platform, glancing at the horizon. A pointless habit. Beyond the gates, the endless dunes stretched to nowhere, their surface faintly shimmering in the dying light, like they were laughing at anyone dumb enough to think they could cross them.

Out there, the dunes stretched on and on, shimmering faintly in the dying light like they were mocking anyone who thought they could cross them. Here and there, the skeletal remains of old machines jutted up, remnants of wars no one cared about anymore. Most nights, all he spotted was a lazy wind stirring up dust and the occasional scavenger who didn't have the brains to turn back.

But tonight, something was off. A dust trail caught his eye. It twisted in the distance, barely visible against the grimy orange smear of the sunset. It wasn't random. It had a purpose. He squinted, gripping the railing a little tighter. A single rider was heading his way, slumped over a wreck of a bike that sounded like it might cough itself to death before it even got close.

Vex squinted, his fingers tightening on the railing. He tried to make out who or what was kicking up the dust until he spotted the figure of a lone biker in the distance. The rider was hunched over his pathetic machine—a rusted, falling-apart motorcycle that, judging by its wheezing engine, could die at any second without even making it to the gates.

As the rider got closer, his silhouette became clearer, and something about his movements immediately put Vex on edge. There was something unsettling about the way he rode. His motions were too sure, too direct, as if this person didn't just know the route, but knew exactly where he was headed—and didn't give a damn what stood in his way.

A Vulture? Vex narrowed his eyes, taking a cautious step back. His hand slid closer to the gate controls, fingers hovering near the lever. Alone? And where were the others? Vultures never traveled solo. It was against their nature.

The bike's rattling engine cut through the quiet like it was slicing into his nerves. Whatever this was, it wasn't good.

The roar of the engine shattered the silence. The bike—a sad wreck—seemed to be held together by nothing but a promise, and the fact that it even made it this far was a miracle. But the noise it made rattled nerves more than it should have. Whatever it was, it didn't bode well. Vex had long since become accustomed to bad news, but this visitor was shaping up to be something special.

The motorcycle screeched to a halt in front of the gates, sending a cloud of thick dust into the air. Vex coughed, swatting irritably at the air in front of his face. He stepped forward, squinting into the haze as a figure began to emerge.

The rider jumped off the bike, his boots thudding heavily against the ground. He wore a battered jacket, covered in dust and marks from past scraps. And that unmistakable twisted smirk, one Vex recognized instantly.

"Grizzly?" Vex called out to the Vulture. He eased his grip on the baton, though a nagging unease lingered. "Didn't expect to see you dragging in alone. Where's your lot? Thought you were running with a crew."

Grizzly's face was smeared with dirt, and something raw and toxic flickered in his eyes—anger, disappointment, maybe something worse. He shook the dust off his jacket in quick, sharp motions, as though trying to rid himself not just of the grime but something heavier. His gestures were overly tense, almost theatrical, as if he didn't even believe in their naturalness.

Vex frowned. An unpleasant feeling crept into his gut, gnawing at him on an instinctual level. Grizzly looked the same as always—the crooked smirk, the same rough features—but something didn't add up. It wasn't in the words, or the movements. There was an invisible weight around him, some kind of a tension that couldn't be explained, but which could be felt.

Grizzly waved dismissively in Vex's direction, as though his question wasn't worth the time or response, then quickly turned away, casting a glance at the gates. Everything about this felt off, but Vex couldn't quite pinpoint what was wrong.

"Dead," he spat. His voice was sharp enough to cut. "Bonebreakers. Those rat-eating scum ambushed us out near the wreck. Set on us like dogs. Took out most of the lads before we could regroup." His lip curled into a snarl, his fists tightened. "I barely got out of there with my skin."

Grizzly's voice was as rough and sharp as always, but something felt off. Vex couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the feeling stuck in his mind, like a splinter. The tension around Grizzly was obvious—his stiff, mechanical movements, the way he waved off the question. At first, it seemed like typical Vulture behavior, but there was something strange in his anger, something almost unnatural.

Vex tried to shake off the feeling, telling himself it was just the stress Grizzly had been through. The bloodbath could drive anyone mad. But still, something about his appearance didn't add up. He was dirty, angry, but not nearly as battered as someone who had just crawled out of a bloody ambush should be.

Even so, Vex pushed aside the doubt. It wasn't his problem. Grizzly had always been lucky, the kind who made it out of messes like this. But the sense that something was wrong kept gnawing at him.

"Damn," Vex muttered, shaking his head. "Didn't think the Bonebreakers had the balls to take on your lot."

"They had numbers. Enough to make it stick," Grizzly said. He brushed past Vex. His movements were jerky and quick, like a storm bottled up and ready to burst. "I'm not standing here trading sob stories, Vex. Got to see the boss. Now."

Vex stepped aside, his hand fell away from the comm lever. "You sure? You look like you've been through a grinder. Barik's not exactly gentle with bad news."

Grizzly shot him a glare that could've melted steel. "You think I don't know that? Just open the damn gate." He turned back toward the towering slabs of metal and barked, "Now!"

Vex sighed and reached for the lever. "Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you." He pulled it down, and the gate groaned as gears locked into motion. The gap widened, revealing the dimly lit streets of the lower hive. Grizzly wasted no time. He strode through without looking back.

The gates creaked open with a protesting groan. Slowly, the dimly lit streets of the lower level revealed themselves, filled with the familiar stench of decay, metal, and hopelessness. Grizzly didn't waste a second. He stepped forward and disappeared into the shadows of the streets, never bothering to look back.

Vex watched as Grizzly vanished into the darkness. There was something off about his anger. Everything seemed as it should: the same intensity, the same sharpness Grizzly was always known for. But beneath it, there was something strange, hollow—like he was trying too hard. His words sounded as if he was trying to convince himself of them.

Vex rubbed the back of his neck, a sense of unease creeping over him. Something was wrong. He replayed the brief encounter in his mind, step by step. Grizzly spoke sharply, as always, but there was a tension in his tone, like a bad actor delivering a line they hadn't fully learned. It didn't fit the usual picture.

But that alone wasn't enough. Vex had always been meticulous about the details—this skill had gotten him out of trouble more than once. And then he remembered. The patch on Grizzly's jacket. The scavenger figure was mirrored, turned the wrong way. The broken chain hung in the wrong claw, the one it shouldn't have been in.

This wasn't just sloppy stitching. No. There was something deeper, something wrong about it. It was as if the person who copied the symbol understood only the shape, but not the meaning. Someone had tried to reproduce the patch without knowing its significance, without realizing that this symbol was more than just an image. The patch was fake.

A tight knot formed in Vex's stomach. Grizzly had been a Vulture for years, and people like him—proud, dangerous, obsessed with their reputation—would never allow themselves to wear such a mockery of their gang's symbol. To them, the patch was more than just an emblem. It was part of their essence, their identity. Ignoring something like that was unthinkable.

Grizzly would never have tolerated it. Never. Unless something had gone very, very wrong. But what exactly, Vex couldn't say. Whatever it was, it wasn't good. The thought that he had just let something unnatural through the gates gnawed at him, growing heavier with every passing second.

He cast a glance at the streets where Grizzly had melted into the shadows. Unease slowly morphed into suspicion, and his instincts hammered the alarm: something was wrong. Very wrong.

He grabbed his walkie-talkie from his belt, gripping it tightly as he clicked it on. His voice came out steady, but the urgency was clear. "Boss, we've got a situation. Grizzly just came through. Alone. And, uhmm… There's something's off. I need you to hear this..."